The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival) (48 page)

She had turned slightly toward the gentleman seated next to her and was listening with interest, when the waiter presented the platter to the diner on her right. She heard the clatter of the serving spoon as it rebounded from the table, and was aware that the waiter was frantically scrambling to keep the platter from dropping. What occurred in the next instant was a total shock, however. The waiter, in his haste to hold the dish upright, had pulled his arm into her, into her hair. She felt the tug, and quickly reached up to prevent further damage, when the cold draft swept across her scalp.

Her wig was off her head, and hooked onto a button on the waiter
’
s sleeve, dangling like a platinum animal in a trap.

“
Ahhhh!
”
Murmurs arose from the throats of the diners.

“
Oh my!
”

“
The poor dear.
”

Suddenly the room was as quiet as a tomb. The exclamations quickly died as the guests sat there, stunned, by the bald, slightly shiny pate of the beautiful Sara Harrington. There was nothing so incongruous as this lovely woman suddenly without a single hair on her head.

The waiter made strangulated sounds as he futilely blended profuse apologies with clumsy efforts to remove the platinum hair piece from his cuff.

Mouths were agape at her dilemma, shocked by the unveiling.

Sara reached out and took the waiter by the arm. She expertly untangled the silver strands from the button until she had it completely free of the cuff. Holding the hairpiece in her hand, she said,
“
You will excuse me, please.
”
And with that, without great hurry, she walked from the room, the wig resting on her palm.

Blinded by beginning tears, she broke into a run once she reached the hall. Without direction, she rushed unseeing along the corridor.

“
Miss
…
Miss. In here,
”
called a quick thinking maid.

She heard the invitation and saw the maid motioning to her. Following the beckoning arm, at last she was secure within the flocked walls of a tiny dressing lounge. Thankfully, she collapsed.

She was alone as tears of humiliation poured down her cheeks. How could she ever face those people again? How could they ever forget the glossy bare scalp that she saw reflecting back to her each day? Doctors had assured her that losing the hair was often a consequence of exposure to radiation, that it often happened to persons undergoing medical radiation therapy, and that it would grow in, eventually. As a blond, they said, she was more susceptible to hair loss after exposure to radiation than someone with darker hair color would be. Sara had carefully observed Althea
’
s hair. She hadn
’
t lost hers, it seemed. At long last Sara moved to the vanity. Sitting before the mirror, she saw the tear streaked make-up, the filmy black dress that she had thought was perfect for the occasion. What must they be thinking of her, she wondered.

Minutes passed before the diners retrieved their forks and began slowly, dispiritedly picking at their food. Any real or superficial cheerfulness was gone from the affair. For many, the sight of Sara
’
s hairless scalp was the closest inkling they had of the horrendous episode in the woman
’
s life. No woman, barely thirty years old, is bald-headed without a very traumatic reason. It was one thing to be told that her husband had died, and she had survived one of the world
’
s most critical accidents, but it was quite another matter for them to see, with shocking clarity, a result of that accident.

There was hardly a sound heard in the dining room. The waiter, aghast at his awkwardness, asked to be relieved. Anne McCauley decided to go to her guest, but only after giving the poor woman a chance to recover. She expected Sara to want to leave immediately, and she could not blame her.

Every woman momentarily thanked the Supreme Being that what she had just witnessed had not happened to her. Every man felt a fleeting desire to place a protective arm around the chiffon shoulder and make a pledge to the lady that all was well. The spirit of the affair was dead—indubitably dead.

Eventually, near the end of the now interminable meal, a soft rustle from the doorway caught their attention. There stood Sara, every bit as striking in her platinum hair and black dress as the moment she had first entered the house.

There was a scraping of chair legs against the floor as the men, all of the men, got to their feet in obeisance as she returned to the table and hesitated beside her seat.

Sara inclined her head in a short, courteous nod to them.

She hadn
’
t chosen to leave, thought Anne McCauley. What guts! She shoved her own chair back, and in one swift motion, the men and the women were all standing, waiting, until Sara reclaimed her seat.

“
Ladies and gentlemen,
”
announced McCauley,
“
I propose a toast—a toast to the most beautiful, gracious lady of the evening—to Mrs. Sara Harrington.
”
He lifted his glass to her.

In unison, wine glasses were hefted above in a tribute to Ben Harrington
’
s courageous wife.

The remainder of the dinner went smoothly.

Upon its completion, the women met in small groups to praise the act, one that they were sure they could not have performed. More than a few suppressed a desire to plainly ask Sara how she had done it, had returned to the dinner.

Off in the corner, being introspective, Orin McCauley wondered at the deeds that impressed man. Had these people heard Sara
’
s own account of the events following White Water, or Althea
’
s, would they have been more impressed than they had been by the sight of Sara
’
s bare head? It was impossible to explain, but this was a society that measured a woman
’
s value by her degree of beauty, and by little else. In this case, each woman present had inadvertently put herself in Sara
’
s place, and was shamed by being uncovered. But the men? Maybe it was their male egos that reminded them that there was a defenseless woman, one that they had somehow failed.

As the evening was drawing to a close, cars were summoned, and farewells given. Despite attempts at gaiety it ended on a somber note.

Since they occupied rooms at the same hotel, Paula and Frank had ridden in the same car. The chauffeur held the door as they slid onto the seat.

“
Paula,
”
said Frank,
“
I
’
d like to talk to you. There are not many days left here, but I think that if we try, maybe we can work something out before we leave Washington.
”

“
Frank, listen to me,
”
answered his wife.

He peered at her through the darkness of the night.

“
There is nothing to be worked out between us. It
’
s over. Finished. Done.
”

“
That
’
s not so, Paula. Because you want something that you didn
’
t find in our marriage doesn
’
t mean the marriage was a failure,
”
he said, still straining to see her.

“
No. But if I didn
’
t find it satisfying then, there is no reason to believe that it will be now. Nothing has changed, Frank, except that we were forced out of our rut,
”
she replied.

“
For the sake of the kids, I want to give it another chance. They deserve that much, don
’
t you think?
”

“
The children don
’
t have anything to say about it. They know. They
’
ve already been told that we
’
ll be applying for a dissolution of our marriage. They
’
re not the first kids a divorce has happened to.
”
She looked out the window at the night.

“
But it
’
s unnecessary, Paula. We can
’
t throw away fifteen years of our lives,
”
he pleaded.
“
That would be foolish.
”

“
That
’
s not the point. We
’
re not throwing away anything. We
’
re just putting a stop to a relationship that has gone cold and indifferent.
”

“
I don
’
t feel that way about you,
”
said Frank.

The car stopped in front of the hotel and discharged them. They walked silently up to their floor.

“
Did you hear what I said?
”
he asked.
“
I said I don
’
t feel cold and indifferent toward you.
”

She unlocked her door, refusing to look at him.

“
Paula, please. Can
’
t we try?
”
His voice was soft, pleading.

She was inside and was starting to close the door when he put his hand against it, holding it back.
“
Wait, Paula. Let me come in for awhile and talk. Just for awhile.
”

“
Frank, I..... If you come in you
’
ll want to stay the night,
”
she said.

“
Yes,
”
he answered.
“
Yes, I will.
”

His hang-dog expression was hard to resist. Paula stepped aside and allowed the door to be opened.
 

The meetings with Senator McCauley had gone much more smoothly than had been expected. He had been courteous and sympathetic, keeping them before his recorder no longer than absolutely necessary. His staff had met their obligations to the Californians with consideration and helpfulness. But for all that, they were anxious to be leaving Washington. Sara had immediately embarked on her return trip to her family
’
s home in Connecticut. Paula and Frank had caught separate flights shortly after their last conference with the Senator. And now, the last of the group struggled into the air terminal with an assortment of packages and hand luggage.

For Cecil and Althea, the trip had been a combination of business and pleasure, the latter having become more acute because of their time together. Having fulfilled his plan for seeing the historic capitol once more, Cecil was perfectly willing to get back to the warm, winter days of southern California. Standing before her, his collar up against the chilly breeze that swept in each time the big doors opened, Cecil shivered slightly.

Althea noticed his shuddering, put the crutches firmly against the floor, and stood up. No matter that they had only a moment ago selected this spot to await their flight.
“
We must find a warmer place to sit,
”
she said.
“
Neither of us needs to end up with a cold, do we?
”

He grabbed the bags and moved off behind her, several chairs away.
“
All right, now?
”
he asked.

Althea smiled. The chill had been invigorating to her, but he was shivering.
“
Sometimes I think I
’
m hardier than you, Cecil. To me, the nippy air is refreshing. But of course, you
’
re still wearing a summer raincoat.
”

“
I know. I know,
”
he replied.
“
I need someone to help me decide what to wear. I need a woman
’
s touch, I guess.
”

“
How is your headache?
”
she asked.
“
Did you take something for it?
’’

Over the past few days their relationship had taken on tones of something more than mutual interest in each other. Just as he had developed a deep concern for her, she, in turn, had quickly adapted to his sensitivities. He smiled, remembering, that for a continuing cough in his chest she had treated him with a special concoction designed to end the hacking.

“
Here,
”
she said, removing two aspirin.
“
I want you to take these.
”